Back Mask: Dan Spalding Thriller, #3 by Richard Prosch

Author:Richard Prosch
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Lohman Hills Creative LLC

Eleven

Early the next morning, before dawn, Howard, Tank and I went for a workout at the gym, and stopped for donuts, while Digger slept.

I had a chocolate glazed—for medicinal purposes—and Howard had an apple fritter.

Tank had half of a plain bagel.

We carried an additional half-dozen rolls home.

“Along the way, I asked Howard if he had a few minutes. “Grab a cup of coffee with me at the store?”

“Sure, why?”

“I got a line on that record,” I said. “A friend of mine is bringing it in and I thought we’d play it backwards.”

“After all these years, you still know how to have a good time.”

A few minutes later we were pulling into the parking lot behind the Thyme Out Lounge.

Marti’s Mini Cooper already sat at the curb in front of the record store.

I waited for Howard and we walked across the brick-lined street together.

Every time I approached Spalding’s Groove, a small thrill went through me.

And a feeling of contentment.

It was, after all, home.

The brick building had two floors, with my studio apartment up top. In the morning dusk, the upstairs windows were shadowy beneath their green tin awnings. Below the windows was another long awning, of similar green tin, and between them, a sign with raised gold letters in a serif font. The sign had been there for as long as Mark had owned the store.

After the place had burned in the spring, I had it replicated and replaced.

The first-floor display windows were as dark as the upstairs. Only a faint glow cast by twin lava lamps inside, and a reflection of the sun peeking over the horizon, gave the place any life.

“Marti’s probably in back,” I said.

After I’d opened the door, Tank charged in, and I let Howard pick out something for the turntable. Marti met us at the counter. “There’s coffee if you want it,” she said.

“Wouldn’t mind a cup,” I said.

“I’ll get it,” Howard said.

“Bring an extra one. We’ve got company,” I told him, as I watched an old four-door Buick pull up and park behind Marti’s car. “Here’s some donuts,” I said, sliding the box across the counter, out of reach of Tank’s dripping muzzle.

Outside, a big woman, with her brown hair tied in short pigtails, climbed out of the beat-up car.

“Who’s this then?” Marti said.

I clapped my hands. “A lowly prophet, bringing us the word.”

The door chimed like a pair of Sunday morning church bells and Tank’s ears went up.

“Jasper, quit pestering your sister,” the woman said, as she pushed her way through the entrance. “Criminently.” She carried an oversized plastic shopping bag in her hand. It looked heavy.

“Welcome,” Marti said.

“Yeah, yeah,” the woman said, a cigarette, stuck to her lower lip, bobbing up and down while she talked. She set the bag down.

“Marti Stahl, this is Velda Carmichael,” I said.

Velda sucked down a third of her cig. “How you doin’, hon?”

Then she lifted her chin to unleash a stream of smoke.

“Hang tight,” she said, “lemme reign in the kids.”

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